Boom
by TheShadowArchitect
Summary: The prospect of starting over is a difficult one. Especially when you've worked so hard to get to where you are. Whumpy one-shot. (Part of the "Cut Again" series previously posted to AO3 and tumblr)


Matt focused. The warehouse was blocks away but swarming with guards. He couldn't risk being seen. Not at this point, not in a place he would be known of and questioned. He was on a roof at the very edge of the residential area of Hell's Kitchen. Cool night air played on his exposed skin, and the mosquitoes were finally dying down for the night. Made it easier to focus when there weren't a million buzzing bodies between him and his mark.

He crouched at the edge of his perch. He could hear what was going on inside- some kind of society meeting. Plans for a man's death. An official hit order going out with more than a million for the man's head to a room of more than 30 trained killers. Important guy, then. Nothing to indicate Matt- barely a relief in this instance. He didn't care all that much about the meeting itself. He was only catching snippets of conversation, focusing far more intently on one particular occupant of the room. A heart beating slightly faster, slightly faster.

The man was sweating, nervous, though with the air of someone who had been trained to control it, to put on a show of confidence. He was sitting in one of the inconspicuous middle seats of a long conference table. Hiding. Waiting. Someone who wasn't supposed to be there as much as Matt.

And then Matt figured it out, a second too late, focusing so intently on the man's heartbeat that he didn't hear the clicking of a button in the man's hand until the entire building ripped itself apart. The shockwave tore into neighboring buildings and threw Matt backward, sprawling, onto the apartment building's roof.

And the second his back hit the shingles, the fire went out. Suddenly, startlingly, everything just ceased.

At first he thought he must have been knocked unconscious. There was no input, nothing he could connect or compute to make a picture with. Sound was utterly, absolutely, gone. He focused intently, in utter denial. There were no longer the buzz of mosquitoes in the air, no longer the sounds of a rooftop bbq a few buildings over or a shopkeeper on the street below closing the security cage on her wares. Nothing.

But, he thought, that wasn't exactly true. The sound was still there, but the specifics had been exchanged for a loud, incessant ringing. This had happened before. Gunshots in closed spaces and taking significant blows to the head had temporarily rendered him functionally deaf in the past. So he took a slow breath, lying still, waiting for the fire to light itself again.

Seconds passed. Minutes. With each increment of time the panic grew ever so slightly. But he was trained, he tamped it down, took deep, slow breaths. It would pass, it would pass, he told himself. It could have been a full hours' time before the thought that this instance could possibly, horribly, be something different entirely.

There were vibrations suddenly in the shingling under his worn body. He pressed his hand against it, grateful for any form of input in his current abyss. He stilled, refocusing now on vibration. Even with his heightened level of sensing, feeling vibration was soft and fuzzy- a world more of muted radio static than fire. Given time he might be able to refine it. For now, however, it was a pittance.

The vibrations indicated there was someone on the roof with him. Someone coming towards him. Faster. Gait indicated male, 190 pounds. Poor center of gravity. Smelled like faded aftershave and fresh sweat and a hint of garlic and alcohol and crappy coffee.

"Foggy." He couldn't hear himself but he felt his mouth and throat form the word. Apprehension left over from before his best friend had learn the truth of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen swept over him. But he had too much to worry about, and his friend was here and presumably would help.

He was sure Foggy was talking, swearing possibly. He had no way to sense it, or refine it from any other sound in the area. He knew approximately where the man was, no more. "I can't hear." He explained, feeling his own breath catch in his throat. He felt Foggy stop moving, maybe pausing in thought.

There was then a point of pressure on Matt's chest. Foggy's index finger. The point of pressure moved, tracing something out on Matt's chest. "H" A short pause. "O" Another, shorter pause. "S-P-I-T-A-L-?"

"No." Matt said vehemently, shaking his head. A pause.

"P-L-E-A-S-E-?"

"Can't" Matt affirmed. He was probably being stupid. The deafness had felt temporary, but it had been long enough that he was beginning to question whether that was fact or merely denial. They both stayed still for a moment. "Help?" He said finally. The words had a note of finality to them, of tiredness, and pain and a growing fear. He was giving in, trusting Foggy. He had no way to resist.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and another grasped his hand. He let Foggy help him struggle upright, his body protesting. As he stood, vibrations came through the top of the building from police cars and ambulances on the street below. The air had continued to cool as night had fallen, the smell of tar from the shingles felt sharper now. If he woke up tomorrow and everything was back to normal, so be it. But even if it wasn't, the rising smell of acrid smoke from the explosion was indication that the city still needed him.

If he woke tomorrow and his hearing had still not returned; if this was, in fact, permanent, he resolved that he would continue to fight with everything he had left.

Foggy lead him to the door. His surroundings currently were a mystery to him, silent and dark. Communication nearly impossible. But there were other ways. He just needed to focus, to train- push himself. Hold himself to a higher standard. He was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. No excuses, no giving in.


End file.
